Letters on Demonology and Witchcraft, by Walter Scott

Letter x.

Other Mystic Arts independent of Witchcraft — Astrology — Its Influence during the 16th and 17th
Centuries — Base Ignorance of those who practised it — Lilly’s History of his Life and Times — Astrologer’s Society —
Dr. Lamb — Dr. Forman — Establishment of the Royal Society — Partridge — Connexion of Astrologers with Elementary
Spirits — Dr. Dun — Irish Superstition of the Banshie — Similar Superstition in the Highlands — Brownie — Ghosts —
Belief of Ancient Philosophers on that Subject — Inquiry into the respect due to such Tales in Modern Times — Evidence
of a Ghost against a Murderer — Ghost of Sir George Villiers — Story of Earl St. Vincent — Of a British General Officer
— Of an Apparition in France — Of the Second Lord Lyttelton — Of Bill Jones — Of Jarvis Matcham — Trial of two
Highlanders for the Murder of Sergeant Davis, discovered by a Ghost — Disturbances at Woodstock, anno 1649 — Imposture
called the Stockwell Ghost — Similar Case in Scotland — Ghost appearing to an Exciseman — Story of a Disturbed House
discovered by the firmness of the Proprietor — Apparition at Plymouth — A Club of Philosophers — Ghost Adventure of a
Farmer — Trick upon a Veteran Soldier — Ghost Stories recommended by the Skill of the Authors who compose them — Mrs.
Veal’s Ghost — Dunton’s Apparition Evidence — Effect of Appropriate Scenery to Encourage a Tendency to Superstition —
Differs at distant Periods of Life — Night at Glammis Castle about 1791 — Visit to Dunvegan in 1814.

While the vulgar endeavoured to obtain a glance into the darkness of futurity by consulting the
witch or fortune-teller, the great were supposed to have a royal path of their own, commanding a view from a loftier
quarter of the same terra incognita. This was represented as accessible by several routes. Physiognomy,
chiromancy, and other fantastic arts of prediction afforded each its mystical assistance and guidance. But the road
most flattering to human vanity, while it was at the same time most seductive to human credulity, was that of
astrology, the queen of mystic sciences, who flattered those who confided in her that the planets and stars in their
spheres figure forth and influence the fate of the creatures of mortality, and that a sage acquainted with her lore
could predict, with some approach to certainty, the events of any man’s career, his chance of success in life or in
marriage, his advance in favour of the great, or answer any other horary questions, as they were termed, which he might
be anxious to propound, provided always he could supply the exact moment of his birth. This, in the sixteenth and
greater part of the seventeenth centuries, was all that was necessary to enable the astrologer to erect a scheme of the
position of the heavenly bodies, which should disclose the life of the interrogator, or Native, as he was called, with
all its changes, past, present, and to come.

Imagination was dazzled by a prospect so splendid; and we find that in the sixteenth century the cultivation of this
fantastic science was the serious object of men whose understandings and acquirements admit of no question. Bacon
himself allowed the truth which might be found in a well-regulated astrology, making thus a distinction betwixt the art
as commonly practised and the manner in which it might, as he conceived, be made a proper use of. But a grave or sober
use of this science, if even Bacon could have taught such moderation, would not have suited the temper of those who,
inflamed by hopes of temporal aggrandizement, pretended to understand and explain to others the language of the stars.
Almost all the other paths of mystic knowledge led to poverty; even the alchemist, though talking loud and high of the
endless treasures his art was to produce, lived from day to day and from year to year upon hopes as unsubstantial as
the smoke of his furnace. But the pursuits of the astrologer were such as called for instant remuneration. He became
rich by the eager hopes and fond credulity of those who consulted him, and that artist lived by duping others, instead
of starving, like others, by duping himself. The wisest men have been cheated by the idea that some supernatural
influence upheld and guided them; and from the time of Wallenstein to that of Buonaparte, ambition and success have
placed confidence in the species of fatalism inspired by a belief of the influence of their own star. Such being the
case, the science was little pursued by those who, faithful in their remarks and reports, must soon have discovered its
delusive vanity through the splendour of its professions; and the place of such calm and disinterested pursuers of
truth was occupied by a set of men sometimes ingenious, always forward and assuming, whose knowledge was imposition,
whose responses were, like the oracles of yore, grounded on the desire of deceit, and who, if sometimes they were
elevated into rank and fortune, were more frequently found classed with rogues and vagabonds. This was the more apt to
be the case that a sufficient stock of impudence, and some knowledge by rote of the terms of art, were all the store of
information necessary for establishing a conjurer. The natural consequence of the degraded character of the professors
was the degradation of the art itself. Lilly, who wrote the history of his own life and times, notices in that curious
volume the most distinguished persons of his day, who made pretensions to astrology, and almost without exception
describes them as profligate, worthless, sharking cheats, abandoned to vice, and imposing, by the grossest frauds, upon
the silly fools who consulted them. From what we learn of his own history, Lilly himself, a low-born ignorant man, with
some gloomy shades of fanaticism in his temperament, was sufficiently fitted to dupe others, and perhaps cheated
himself merely by perusing, at an advanced period of life, some of the astrological tracts devised by men of less
cunning, though perhaps more pretence to science, than he himself might boast. Yet the public still continue to swallow
these gross impositions, though coming from such unworthy authority. The astrologers embraced different sides of the
Civil War, and the king on one side, with the Parliamentary leaders on the other, were both equally curious to know,
and eager to believe, what Lilly, Wharton, or Gadbury had discovered from the heavens touching the fortune of the
strife. Lilly was a prudent person, contriving with some address to shift the sails of his prophetic bark so as to suit
the current of the time, and the gale of fortune. No person could better discover from various omens the course of
Charles’s misfortunes, so soon as they had come to pass. In the time of the Commonwealth he foresaw the perpetual
destruction of the monarchy, and in 1660 this did not prevent his foreseeing the restoration of Charles II. He
maintained some credit even among the better classes, for Aubrey and Ashmole both called themselves his friends, being
persons extremely credulous, doubtless, respecting the mystic arts. Once a year, too, the astrologers had a public
dinner or feast, where the knaves were patronised by the company of such fools as claimed the title of Philomaths —
that is, lovers of the mathematics, by which name were still distinguished those who encouraged the pursuit of mystical
prescience, the most opposite possible to exact science. Elias Ashmole, the “most honourable Esquire,” to whom Lilly’s
life is dedicated, seldom failed to attend; nay, several men of sense and knowledge honoured this rendezvous.
Congreve’s picture of a man like Foresight, the dupe of astrology and its sister arts, was then common in society. But
the astrologers of the 17th century did not confine themselves to the stars. There was no province of fraud which they
did not practise; they were scandalous as panders, and as quacks sold potions for the most unworthy purposes. For such
reasons the common people detested the astrologers of the great as cordially as they did the more vulgar witches of
their own sphere.

Dr. Lamb, patronised by the Duke of Buckingham, who, like other overgrown favourites, was inclined to cherish
astrology, was in 1640 pulled to pieces in the city of London by the enraged populace, and his maid-servant, thirteen
years afterwards, hanged as a witch at Salisbury. In the villanous transaction of the poisoning of Sir Thomas Overbury,
in King James’s time, much mention was made of the art and skill of Dr. Forman, another professor of the same sort with
Lamb, who was consulted by the Countess of Essex on the best mode of conducting her guilty intrigue with the Earl of
Somerset. He was dead before the affair broke out, which might otherwise have cost him the gibbet, as it did all others
concerned, with the exception only of the principal parties, the atrocious authors of the crime. When the cause was
tried, some little puppets were produced in court, which were viewed by one party with horror, as representing the most
horrid spells. It was even said that the devil was about to pull down the court-house on their being discovered. Others
of the audience only saw in them the baby figures on which the dressmakers then, as now, were accustomed to expose new
fashions.

The erection of the Royal Society, dedicated to far different purposes than the pursuits of astrology, had a natural
operation in bringing the latter into discredit; and although the credulity of the ignorant and uninformed continued to
support some pretenders to that science, the name of Philomath, assumed by these persons and their clients, began to
sink under ridicule and contempt. When Sir Richard Steele set up the paper called the Guardian, he chose,
under the title of Nestor Ironside, to assume the character of an astrologer, and issued predictions accordingly, one
of which, announcing the death of a person called Partridge, once a shoemaker, but at the time the conductor of an
Astrological Almanack, led to a controversy, which was supported with great humour by Swift and other wags. I believe
you will find that this, with Swift’s Elegy on the same person, is one of the last occasions in which astrology has
afforded even a jest to the good people of England.

This dishonoured science has some right to be mentioned in a “Treatise on Demonology,” because the earlier
astrologers, though denying the use of all necromancy — that is, unlawful or black magic — pretended always to a
correspondence with the various spirits of the elements, on the principles of the Rosicrucian philosophy. They affirmed
they could bind to their service, and imprison in a ring, a mirror, or a stone, some fairy, sylph, or salamander, and
compel it to appear when called, and render answers to such questions as the viewer should propose. It is remarkable
that the sage himself did not pretend to see the spirit; but the task of viewer, or reader, was entrusted to a third
party, a boy or girl usually under the years of puberty. Dr. Dee, an excellent mathematician, had a stone of this kind,
and is said to have been imposed upon concerning the spirits attached to it, their actions and answers, by the report
of one Kelly who acted as his viewer. The unfortunate Dee was ruined by his associates both in fortune and reputation.
His show-stone or mirror is still preserved among other curiosities in the British Museum. Some superstition of the
same kind was introduced by the celebrated Count Cagliostro, during the course of the intrigue respecting the diamond
necklace in which the late Marie Antoinette was so unfortunately implicated.

Dismissing this general class of impostors, who are now seldom heard of, we come now briefly to mention some leading
superstitions once, perhaps, common to all the countries of Europe, but now restricted to those which continue to be
inhabited by an undisturbed and native race. Of these, one of the most beautiful is the Irish fiction which assigns to
certain families of ancient descent and distinguished rank the privilege of a Banshie, as she is called, or household
fairy, whose office it is to appear, seemingly mourning, while she announces the approaching death of some one of the
destined race. The subject has been so lately and beautifully investigated and illustrated by Mr. Crofton Croker and
others, that I may dispense with being very particular regarding it. If I am rightly informed, the distinction of a
banshie is only allowed to families of the pure Milesian stock, and is never ascribed to any descendant of the proudest
Norman or boldest Saxon who followed the banner of Earl Strongbow, much less to adventurers of later date who have
obtained settlements in the Green Isle.

Several families of the Highlands of Scotland anciently laid claim to the distinction of an attendant spirit who
performed the office of the Irish banshie. Amongst them, however, the functions of this attendant genius, whose form
and appearance differed in different cases, were not limited to announcing the dissolution of those whose days were
numbered. The Highlanders contrived to exact from them other points of service, sometimes as warding off dangers of
battle; at others, as guarding and protecting the infant heir through the dangers of childhood; and sometimes as
condescending to interfere even in the sports of the chieftain, and point out the fittest move to be made at chess, or
the best card to be played at any other game. Among those spirits who have deigned to vouch their existence by
appearance of late years, is that of an ancestor of the family of MacLean of Lochbuy. Before the death of any of his
race the phantom-chief gallops along the sea-beach near to the castle, announcing the event by cries and lamentations.
The spectre is said to have rode his rounds and uttered his death-cries within these few years, in consequence of which
the family and clan, though much shocked, were in no way surprised to hear by next accounts that their gallant chief
was dead at Lisbon, where he served under Lord Wellington.

Of a meaner origin and occupation was the Scottish Brownie, already mentioned as somewhat resembling Robin
Goodfellow in the frolicsome days of Old England. This spirit was easily banished, or, as it was styled, hired away, by
the offer of clothes or food; but many of the simple inhabitants could little see the prudence of parting with such a
useful domestic drudge, who served faithfully, without fee and reward, food or raiment. Neither was it all times safe
to reject Brownie’s assistance. Thus, we are informed by Brand, that a young man in the Orkneys “used to brew, and
sometimes read upon his Bible; to whom an old woman in the house said, that Brownie was displeased with that book he
read upon, which, if he continued to do, they would get no more service of Brownie; but he, being better instructed
from that book, which was Brownie’s eyesore and the object of his wrath, when he brewed, would not suffer any sacrifice
to be given to Brownie; whereupon the first and second brewings were spoilt, and for no use; for though the wort
wrought well, yet in a little time it left off working, and grew cold; but of the third broust, or brewing, he had ale
very good, though he would not give any sacrifice to Brownie, with whom afterwards they were no more troubled.” Another
story of the same kind is told of a lady in Uist, who refused, on religious grounds, the usual sacrifice to this
domestic spirit. The first and second brewings failed, but the third succeeded; and thus, when Brownie lost the
perquisite to which he had been so long accustomed, he abandoned the inhospitable house, where his services had so long
been faithfully rendered. The last place in the south of Scotland supposed to have been honoured, or benefited, by the
residence of a Brownie, was Bodsbeck in Moffatdale, which has been the subject of an entertaining tale by Mr. James
Hogg, the self-instructed genius of Ettrick Forest.

These particular superstitions, however, are too limited, and too much obliterated from recollection, to call for
special discussion. The general faith in fairies has already undergone our consideration; but something remains to be
said upon another species of superstition, so general that it may be called proper to mankind in every climate; so
deeply rooted also in human belief, that it is found to survive in states of society during which all other fictions of
the same order are entirely dismissed from influence. Mr. Crabbe, with his usual felicity, has called the belief in
ghosts “the last lingering fiction of the brain.”

Nothing appears more simple at the first view of the subject, than that human memory should recall and bring back to
the eye of the imagination, in perfect similitude, even the very form and features of a person with whom we have been
long conversant, or which have been imprinted in our minds with indelible strength by some striking circumstances
touching our meeting in life. The son does not easily forget the aspect of an affectionate father; and, for reasons
opposite but equally powerful, the countenance of a murdered person is engraved upon the recollection of his slayer. A
thousand additional circumstances, far too obvious to require recapitulation, render the supposed apparition of the
dead the most ordinary spectral phenomenon which is ever believed to occur among the living. All that we have formerly
said respecting supernatural appearances in general, applies with peculiar force to the belief of ghosts; for whether
the cause of delusion exists in an excited imagination or a disordered organic system, it is in this way that it
commonly exhibits itself. Hence Lucretius himself, the most absolute of sceptics, considers the existence of ghosts,
and their frequent apparition, as facts so undeniable that he endeavours to account for them at the expense of
assenting to a class of phenomena very irreconcilable to his general system. As he will not allow of the existence of
the human soul, and at the same time cannot venture to question the phenomena supposed to haunt the repositories of the
dead, he is obliged to adopt the belief that the body consists of several coats like those of an onion, and that the
outmost and thinnest, being detached by death, continues to wander near the place of sepulture, in the exact
resemblance of the person while alive.

We have said there are many ghost stories which we do not feel at liberty to challenge as impostures, because we are
confident that those who relate them on their own authority actually believe what they assert, and may have good reason
for doing so, though there is no real phantom after all. We are far, therefore, from averring that such tales are
necessarily false. It is easy to suppose the visionary has been imposed upon by a lively dream, a waking reverie, the
excitation of a powerful imagination, or the misrepresentation of a diseased organ of sight; and in one or other of
these causes, to say nothing of a system of deception which may in many instances be probable, we apprehend a solution
will be found for all cases of what are called real ghost stories.

In truth, the evidence with respect to such apparitions is very seldom accurately or distinctly questioned. A
supernatural tale is in most cases received as an agreeable mode of amusing society, and he would be rather accounted a
sturdy moralist than an entertaining companion who should employ himself in assailing its credibility. It would indeed
be a solecism in manners, something like that of impeaching the genuine value of the antiquities exhibited by a
good-natured collector for the gratification of his guests. This difficulty will appear greater should a company have
the rare good fortune to meet the person who himself witnessed the wonders which he tells; a well-bred or prudent man
will, under such circumstances, abstain from using the rules of cross-examination practised in a court of justice; and
if in any case he presumes to do so, he is in danger of receiving answers, even from the most candid and honourable
persons, which are rather fitted to support the credit of the story which they stand committed to maintain, than to the
pure service of unadorned truth. The narrator is asked, for example, some unimportant question with respect to the
apparition; he answers it on the hasty suggestion of his own imagination, tinged as it is with belief of the general
fact, and by doing so often gives a feature of minute evidence which was before wanting, and this with perfect
unconsciousness on his own part. It is a rare occurrence, indeed, to find an opportunity of dealing with an actual
ghost-seer; such instances, however, I have certainly myself met with, and that in the case of able, wise, candid, and
resolute persons, of whose veracity I had every reason to be confident. But in such instances shades of mental
aberration have afterwards occurred, which sufficiently accounted for the supposed apparitions, and will incline me
always to feel alarmed in behalf of the continued health of a friend who should conceive himself to have witnessed such
a visitation.

The nearest approximation which can be generally made to exact evidence in this case, is the word of some individual
who has had the story, it may be, from the person to whom it has happened, but most likely from his family, or some
friend of the family. Far more commonly the narrator possesses no better means of knowledge than that of dwelling in
the country where the thing happened, or being well acquainted with the outside of the mansion in the inside of which
the ghost appeared.

In every point the evidence of such a second-hand retailer of the mystic story must fall under the adjudged case in
an English court. The judge stopped a witness who was about to give an account of the murder upon trial, as it was
narrated to him by the ghost of the murdered person. “Hold, sir,” said his lordship; “the ghost is an excellent
witness, and his evidence the best possible; but he cannot be heard by proxy in this court. Summon him hither, and I’ll
hear him in person; but your communication is mere hearsay, which my office compels me to reject.” Yet it is upon the
credit of one man, who pledges it upon that of three or four persons, who have told it successively to each other, that
we are often expected to believe an incident inconsistent with the laws of Nature, however agreeable to our love of the
wonderful and the horrible.

In estimating the truth or falsehood of such stories it is evident we can derive no proofs from that period of
society when men affirmed boldly, and believed stoutly, all the wonders which could be coined or fancied. That such
stories are believed and told by grave historians, only shows that the wisest men cannot rise in all things above the
general ignorance of their age. Upon the evidence of such historians we might as well believe the portents of ancient
or the miracles of modern Rome. For example, we read in Clarendon of the apparition of the ghost of Sir George Villiers
to an ancient dependant. This is no doubt a story told by a grave author, at a time when such stories were believed by
all the world; but does it follow that our reason must acquiesce in a statement so positively contradicted by the voice
of Nature through all her works? The miracle of raising a dead man was positively refused by our Saviour to the Jews,
who demanded it as a proof of his mission, because they had already sufficient grounds of conviction; and, as they
believed them not, it was irresistibly argued by the Divine Person whom they tempted, that neither would they believe
if one arose from the dead. Shall we suppose that a miracle refused for the conversion of God’s chosen people was sent
on a vain errand to save the life of a profligate spendthrift? I lay aside, you observe, entirely the not unreasonable
supposition that Towers, or whatever was the ghost-seer’s name, desirous to make an impression upon Buckingham, as an
old servant of his house, might be tempted to give him his advice, of which we are not told the import, in the
character of his father’s spirit, and authenticate the tale by the mention of some token known to him as a former
retainer of the family. The Duke was superstitious, and the ready dupe of astrologers and soothsayers. The manner in
which he had provoked the fury of the people must have warned every reflecting person of his approaching fate; and, the
age considered, it was not unnatural that a faithful friend should take this mode of calling his attention to his
perilous situation. Or, if we suppose that the incident was not a mere pretext to obtain access to the Duke’s ear, the
messenger may have been impressed upon by an idle dream — in a word, numberless conjectures might be formed for
accounting for the event in a natural way, the most extravagant of which is more probable than that the laws of Nature
were broken through in order to give a vain and fruitless warning to an ambitious minion.

It is the same with all those that are called accredited ghost stories usually told at the fireside. They want
evidence. It is true that the general wish to believe, rather than power of believing, has given some such stories a
certain currency in society. I may mention, as one of the class of tales I mean, that of the late Earl St. Vincent, who
watched, with a friend, it is said, a whole night, in order to detect the cause of certain nocturnal disturbances which
took place in a certain mansion. The house was under lease to Mrs. Ricketts, his sister. The result of his lordship’s
vigil is said to have been that he heard the noises without being able to detect the causes, and insisted on his sister
giving up the house. This is told as a real story, with a thousand different circumstances. But who has heard or seen
an authentic account from Earl St. Vincent, or from his “companion of the watch,” or from his lordship’s sister? And as
in any other case such sure species of direct evidence would be necessary to prove the facts, it seems unreasonable to
believe such a story on slighter terms. When the particulars are precisely fixed and known, it might be time to enquire
whether Lord St. Vincent, amid the other eminent qualities of a first-rate seaman, might not be in some degree tinged
with their tendency to superstition; and still farther, whether, having ascertained the existence of disturbances not
immediately or easily detected, his lordship might not advise his sister rather to remove than to remain in a house so
haunted, though he might believe that poachers or smugglers were the worst ghosts by whom it was disturbed.

The story of two highly respectable officers in the British army, who are supposed to have seen the spectre of the
brother of one of them in a hut, or barrack, in America, is also one of those accredited ghost tales, which attain a
sort of brevet rank as true, from the mention of respectable names as the parties who witnessed the vision. But we are
left without a glimpse when, how, and in what terms, this story obtained its currency; as also by whom, and in what
manner, it was first circulated; and among the numbers by whom it has been quoted, although all agree in the general
event, scarcely two, even of those who pretend to the best information, tell the story in the same way.

Another such story, in which the name of a lady of condition is made use of as having seen an apparition in a
country-seat in France, is so far better borne out than those I have mentioned, that I have seen a narrative of the
circumstances attested by the party principally concerned. That the house was disturbed seems to be certain, but the
circumstances (though very remarkable) did not, in my mind, by any means exclude the probability that the disturbance
and appearances were occasioned by the dexterous management of some mischievously-disposed persons.

The remarkable circumstance of Thomas, the second Lord Lyttelton, prophesying his own death within a few minutes,
upon the information of an apparition, has been always quoted as a true story. But of late it has been said and
published, that the unfortunate nobleman had previously determined to take poison, and of course had it in his own
power to ascertain the execution of the prediction. It was no doubt singular that a man, who meditated his exit from
the world, should have chosen to play such a trick on his friends. But it is still more credible that a whimsical man
should do so wild a thing, than that a messenger should be sent from the dead to tell a libertine at what precise hour
he should expire.

To this list other stories of the same class might be added. But it is sufficient to show that such stories as
these, having gained a certain degree of currency in the world, and bearing creditable names on their front, walk
through society unchallenged, like bills through a bank when they bear respectable indorsations, although, it may be,
the signatures are forged after all. There is, indeed, an unwillingness very closely to examine such subjects, for the
secret fund of superstition in every man’s bosom is gratified by believing them to be true, or at least induces him to
abstain from challenging them as false. And no doubt it must happen that the transpiring of incidents, in which men
have actually seen, or conceived that they saw, apparitions which were invisible to others, contributes to the increase
of such stories — which do accordingly sometimes meet us in a shape of veracity difficult to question.

The following story was narrated to me by my friend, Mr. William Clerk, chief clerk to the Jury Court, Edinburgh,
when he first learned it, now nearly thirty years ago, from a passenger in the mail-coach. With Mr. Clerk’s consent, I
gave the story at that time to poor Mat Lewis, who published it with a ghost-ballad which he adjusted on the same
theme. From the minuteness of the original detail, however, the narrative is better calculated for prose than verse;
and more especially as the friend to whom it was originally communicated is one of the most accurate, intelligent, and
acute persons whom I have known in the course of my life, I am willing to preserve the precise story in this place.

It was about the eventful year 1800, when the Emperor Paul laid his ill-judged embargo on British trade, that my
friend Mr. William Clerk, on a journey to London, found himself in company, in the mail-coach, with a seafaring man of
middle age and respectable appearance, who announced himself as master of a vessel in the Baltic trade, and a sufferer
by the embargo. In the course of the desultory conversation which takes place on such occasions the seaman observed, in
compliance with a common superstition, “I wish we may have good luck on our journey — there is a magpie.” “And why
should that be unlucky?” said my friend. “I cannot tell you that,” replied the sailor; “but all the world agrees that
one magpie bodes bad luck — two are not so bad, but three are the devil. I never saw three magpies but twice, and once
I had near lost my vessel, and the second I fell from a horse, and was hurt.” This conversation led Mr. Clerk to
observe that he supposed he believed also in ghosts, since he credited such auguries. “And if I do,” said the sailor,
“I may have my own reasons for doing so;” and he spoke this in a deep and serious manner, implying that he felt deeply
what he was saying. On being further urged, he confessed that, if he could believe his own eyes, there was one ghost at
least which he had seen repeatedly. He then told his story as I now relate it.

Our mariner had in his youth gone mate of a slave vessel from Liverpool, of which town he seemed to be a native. The
captain of the vessel was a man of a variable temper, sometimes kind and courteous to his men, but subject to fits of
humour, dislike, and passion, during which he was very violent, tyrannical, and cruel. He took a particular dislike at
one sailor aboard, an elderly man, called Bill Jones, or some such name. He seldom spoke to this person without threats
and abuse, which the old man, with the license which sailors take on merchant vessels, was very apt to return. On one
occasion Bill Jones appeared slow in getting out on the yard to hand a sail. The captain, according to custom, abused
the seaman as a lubberly rascal, who got fat by leaving his duty to other people. The man made a saucy answer, almost
amounting to mutiny, on which, in a towering passion, the captain ran down to his cabin, and returned with a
blunderbuss loaded with slugs, with which he took deliberate aim at the supposed mutineer, fired, and mortally wounded
him. The man was handed down from the yard, and stretched on the deck, evidently dying. He fixed his eyes on the
captain, and said, “Sir, you have done for me, but I will never leave you” The captain, in return, swore at
him for a fat lubber, and said he would have him thrown into the slave-kettle, where they made food for the negroes,
and see how much fat he had got. The man died. His body was actually thrown into the slave-kettle, and the narrator
observed, with a naïveté which confirmed the extent of his own belief in the truth of what he told, “There was
not much fat about him after all.”

The captain told the crew they must keep absolute silence on the subject of what had passed; and as the mate was not
willing to give an explicit and absolute promise, he ordered him to be confined below. After a day or two he came to
the mate, and demanded if he had an intention to deliver him up for trial when the vessel got home. The mate, who was
tired of close confinement in that sultry climate, spoke his commander fair, and obtained his liberty. When he mingled
among the crew once more he found them impressed with the idea, not unnatural in their situation, that the ghost of the
dead man appeared among them when they had a spell of duty, especially if a sail was to be handed, on which occasion
the spectre was sure to be out upon the yard before any of the crew. The narrator had seen this apparition himself
repeatedly — he believed the captain saw it also, but he took no notice of it for some time, and the crew, terrified at
the violent temper of the man, dared not call his attention to it. Thus they held on their course homeward with great
fear and anxiety.

At length, the captain invited the mate, who was now in a sort of favour, to go down to the cabin and take a glass
of grog with him. In this interview he assumed a very grave and anxious aspect. “I need not tell you, Jack,” he said,
“what sort of hand we have got on board with us. He told me he would never leave me, and he has kept his word. You only
see him now and then, but he is always by my side, and never out of my sight. At this very moment I see him — I am
determined to bear it no longer, and I have resolved to leave you.”

The mate replied that his leaving the vessel while out of the sight of any land was impossible. He advised, that if
the captain apprehended any bad consequences from what had happened, he should run for the west of France or Ireland,
and there go ashore, and leave him, the mate, to carry the vessel into Liverpool. The captain only shook his head
gloomily, and reiterated his determination to leave the ship. At this moment the mate was called to the deck for some
purpose or other, and the instant he got up the companion-ladder he heard a splash in the water, and looking over the
ship’s side, saw that the captain had thrown himself into the sea from the quarter-gallery, and was running astern at
the rate of six knots an hour. When just about to sink he seemed to make a last exertion, sprung half out of the water,
and clasped his hands towards the mate, calling, “By —— Bill is with me now!” and then sunk, to be seen no more.

After hearing this singular story Mr. Clerk asked some questions about the captain, and whether his companion
considered him as at all times rational. The sailor seemed struck with the question, and answered, after a moment’s
delay, that in general he conversationed well enough.

It would have been desirable to have been able to ascertain how far this extraordinary tale was founded on fact; but
want of time and other circumstances prevented Mr. Clerk from learning the names and dates, that might to a certain
degree have verified the events. Granting the murder to have taken place, and the tale to have been truly told, there
was nothing more likely to arise among the ship’s company than the belief in the apparition; as the captain was a man
of a passionate and irritable disposition, it was nowise improbable that he, the victim of remorse, should participate
in the horrible visions of those less concerned, especially as he was compelled to avoid communicating his sentiments
with any one else; and the catastrophe would in such a case be but the natural consequence of that superstitious
remorse which has conducted so many criminals to suicide or the gallows. If the fellow-traveller of Mr. Clerk be not
allowed this degree of credit, he must at least be admitted to have displayed a singular talent for the composition of
the horrible in fiction. The tale, properly detailed, might have made the fortune of a romancer.

I cannot forbear giving you, as congenial to this story, another instance of a guilt-formed phantom, which made
considerable noise about twenty years ago or more. I am, I think, tolerably correct in the details, though I have lost
the account of the trial. Jarvis Matcham — such, if I am not mistaken, was the name of my hero — was pay-sergeant in a
regiment, where he was so highly esteemed as a steady and accurate man that he was permitted opportunity to embezzle a
considerable part of the money lodged in his hands for pay of soldiers, bounty of recruits (then a large sum), and
other charges which fell within his duty. He was summoned to join his regiment from a town where he had been on the
recruiting service, and this perhaps under some shade of suspicion. Matcham perceived discovery was at hand, and would
have deserted had it not been for the presence of a little drummer lad, who was the only one of his party appointed to
attend him. In the desperation of his crime he resolved to murder the poor boy, and avail himself of some balance of
money to make his escape. He meditated this wickedness the more readily that the drummer, he thought, had been put as a
spy on him. He perpetrated his crime, and changing his dress after the deed was done, made a long walk across the
country to an inn on the Portsmouth road, where he halted and went to bed, desiring to be called when the first
Portsmouth coach came. The waiter summoned him accordingly, but long after remembered that, when he shook the guest by
the shoulder, his first words as he awoke were: “My God! I did not kill him.”

Matcham went to the seaport by the coach, and instantly entered as an able-bodied landsman or marine, I know not
which. His sobriety and attention to duty gained him the same good opinion of the officers in his new service which he
had enjoyed in the army. He was afloat for several years, and behaved remarkably well in some actions. At length the
vessel came into Plymouth, was paid off, and some of the crew, amongst whom was Jarvis Matcham, were dismissed as too
old for service. He and another seaman resolved to walk to town, and took the route by Salisbury. It was when within
two or three miles of this celebrated city that they were overtaken by a tempest so sudden, and accompanied with such
vivid lightning and thunder so dreadfully loud, that the obdurate conscience of the old sinner began to be awakened. He
expressed more terror than seemed natural for one who was familiar with the war of elements, and began to look and talk
so wildly that his companion became aware that something more than usual was the matter. At length Matcham complained
to his companion that the stones rose from the road and flew after him. He desired the man to walk on the other side of
the highway to see if they would follow him when he was alone. The sailor complied, and Jarvis Matcham complained that
the stones still flew after him and did not pursue the other. “But what is worse,” he added, coming up to his
companion, and whispering, with a tone of mystery and fear, “who is that little drummer-boy, and what business has he
to follow us so closely?” “I can see no one,” answered the seaman, infected by the superstition of his associate.
“What! not see that little boy with the bloody pantaloons!” exclaimed the secret murderer, so much to the terror of his
comrade that he conjured him, if he had anything on his mind, to make a clear conscience as far as confession could do
it. The criminal fetched a deep groan, and declared that he was unable longer to endure the life which he had led for
years. He then confessed the murder of the drummer, and added that, as a considerable reward had been offered, he
wished his comrade to deliver him up to the magistrates of Salisbury, as he would desire a shipmate to profit by his
fate, which he was now convinced was inevitable. Having overcome his friend’s objections to this mode of proceeding,
Jarvis Matcham was surrendered to justice accordingly, and made a full confession of his guilt But before the trial the
love of life returned. The prisoner denied his confession, and pleaded Not Guilty. By this time, however, full evidence
had been procured from other quarters. Witnesses appeared from his former regiment to prove his identity with the
murderer and deserter, and the waiter remembered the ominous words which he had spoken when he awoke him to join the
Portsmouth coach. Jarvis Matcham was found guilty and executed. When his last chance of life was over he returned to
his confession, and with his dying breath averred, and truly, as he thought, the truth of the vision on Salisbury
Plain. Similar stories might be produced, showing plainly that, under the direction of Heaven, the influence of
superstitious fear may be the appointed means of bringing the criminal to repentance for his own sake, and to
punishment for the advantage of society.

Cases of this kind are numerous and easily imagined, so I shall dwell on them no further; but rather advert to at
least an equally abundant class of ghost stories, in which the apparition is pleased not to torment the actual
murderer, but proceeds in a very circuitous manner, acquainting some stranger or ignorant old woman with the
particulars of his fate, who, though perhaps unacquainted with all the parties, is directed by a phantom to lay the
facts before a magistrate. In this respect we must certainly allow that ghosts have, as we are informed by the
facetious Captain Grose, forms and customs peculiar to themselves.

There would be no edification and little amusement in treating of clumsy deceptions of this kind, where the
grossness of the imposture detects itself. But occasionally cases occur like the following, with respect to which it is
more difficult, to use James Boswell’s phrase, “to know what to think.”

Upon the 10th of June, 1754, Duncan Terig, alias Clark, and Alexander Bain MacDonald, two Highlanders, were
tried before the Court of Justiciary, Edinburgh, for the murder of Arthur Davis, sergeant in Guise’s regiment, on the
28th September, 1749. The accident happened not long after the civil war, the embers of which were still reeking, so
there existed too many reasons on account of which an English soldier, straggling far from assistance, might be
privately cut off by the inhabitants of these wilds. It appears that Sergeant Davis was missing for years, without any
certainty as to his fate. At length, an account of the murder appeared from the evidence of one Alexander MacPherson (a
Highlander, speaking no language but Gaelic, and sworn by an interpreter), who gave the following extraordinary account
of his cause of knowledge:— He was, he said, in bed in his cottage, when an apparition came to his bedside and
commanded him to rise and follow him out of doors. Believing his visitor to be one Farquharson, a neighbour and friend,
the witness did as he was bid; and when they were without the cottage, the appearance told the witness he was the ghost
of Sergeant Davis, and requested him to go and bury his mortal remains, which lay concealed in a place he pointed out
in a moorland tract called the Hill of Christie. He desired him to take Farquharson with him as an assistant. Next day
the witness went to the place specified, and there found the bones of a human body much decayed. The witness did not at
that time bury the bones so found, in consequence of which negligence the sergeant’s ghost again appeared to him,
upbraiding him with his breach of promise. On this occasion the witness asked the ghost who were the murderers, and
received for answer that he had been slain by the prisoners at the bar. The witness, after this second visitation,
called the assistance of Farquharson, and buried the body.

Farquharson was brought in evidence to prove that the preceding witness, MacPherson, had called him to the burial of
the bones, and told him the same story which he repeated in court. Isabel MacHardie, a person who slept in one of the
beds which run along the wall in an ordinary Highland hut, declared that upon the night when MacPherson said he saw the
ghost, she saw a naked man enter the house and go towards MacPherson’s bed.

Yet though the supernatural incident was thus fortified, and although there were other strong presumptions against
the prisoners, the story of the apparition threw an air of ridicule on the whole evidence for the prosecution. It was
followed up by the counsel for the prisoners asking, in the cross-examination of MacPherson, “What language did the
ghost speak in?” The witness, who was himself ignorant of English, replied, “As good Gaelic as I ever heard in
Lochaber.” “Pretty well for the ghost of an English sergeant,” answered the counsel. The inference was rather smart and
plausible than sound, for, the apparition of the ghost being admitted, we know too little of the other world to judge
whether all languages may not be alike familiar to those who belonged to it. It imposed, however, on the jury, who
found the accused parties not guilty, although their counsel and solicitor and most of the court were satisfied of
their having committed the murder. In this case the interference of the ghost seems to have rather impeded the
vengeance which it was doubtless the murdered sergeant’s desire to obtain. Yet there may be various modes of explaining
this mysterious story, of which the following conjecture may pass for one.

The reader may suppose that MacPherson was privy to the fact of the murder, perhaps as an accomplice or otherwise,
and may also suppose that, from motives of remorse for the action, or of enmity to those who had committed it, he
entertained a wish to bring them to justice. But through the whole Highlands there is no character more detestable than
that of an informer, or one who takes what is called Tascal-money, or reward for discovery of crimes. To have informed
against Terig and MacDonald might have cost MacPherson his life; and it is far from being impossible that he had
recourse to the story of the ghost, knowing well that his superstitious countrymen would pardon his communicating the
commission entrusted to him by a being from the other world, although he might probably have been murdered if his
delation of the crime had been supposed voluntary. This explanation, in exact conformity with the sentiments of the
Highlanders on such subjects, would reduce the whole story to a stroke of address on the part of the witness.

It is therefore of the last consequence, in considering the truth of stories of ghosts and apparitions, to consider
the possibility of wilful deception, whether on the part of those who are agents in the supposed disturbances, or the
author of the legend. We shall separately notice an instance or two of either kind.

The most celebrated instance in which human agency was used to copy the disturbances imputed to supernatural beings
refers to the ancient palace of Woodstock, when the Commissioners of the Long Parliament came down to dispark what had
been lately a royal residence. The Commissioners arrived at Woodstock, 13th October, 1649, determined to wipe away the
memory of all that connected itself with the recollection of monarchy in England. But in the course of their progress
they were encountered by obstacles which apparently came from the next world. Their bed-chambers were infested with
visits of a thing resembling a dog, but which came and passed as mere earthly dogs cannot do. Logs of wood, the remains
of a very large tree called the King’s Oak, which they had splintered into billets for burning, were tossed through the
house, and the chairs displaced and shuffled about. While they were in bed the feet of their couches were lifted higher
than their heads, and then dropped with violence. Trenchers “without a wish” flew at their heads of free will. Thunder
and lightning came next, which were set down to the same cause. Spectres made their appearance, as they thought, in
different shapes, and one of the party saw the apparition of a hoof, which kicked a candlestick and lighted candle into
the middle of the room, and then politely scratched on the red snuff to extinguish it. Other and worse tricks were
practised on the astonished Commissioners who, considering that all the fiends of hell were let loose upon them,
retreated from Woodstock without completing an errand which was, in their opinion, impeded by infernal powers, though
the opposition offered was rather of a playful and malicious than of a dangerous cast.

The whole matter was, after the Restoration, discovered to be the trick of one of their own party, who had attended
the Commissioners as a clerk, under the name of Giles Sharp. This man, whose real name was Joseph Collins of Oxford,
called Funny Joe, was a concealed loyalist, and well acquainted with the old mansion of Woodstock, where he
had been brought up before the Civil War. Being a bold, active spirited man, Joe availed himself of his local knowledge
of trap-doors and private passages so as to favour the tricks which he played off upon his masters by aid of his
fellow-domestics. The Commissioners’ personal reliance on him made his task the more easy, and it was all along
remarked that trusty Giles Sharp saw the most extraordinary sights and visions among the whole party. The unearthly
terrors experienced by the Commissioners are detailed with due gravity by Sinclair, and also, I think, by Dr. Plott.
But although the detection or explanation of the real history of the Woodstock demons has also been published, and I
have myself seen it, I have at this time forgotten whether it exists in a separate collection, or where it is to be
looked for.

Similar disturbances have been often experienced while it was the custom to believe in and dread such frolics of the
invisible world, and under circumstances which induce us to wonder, both at the extreme trouble taken by the agents in
these impostures, and the slight motives from which they have been induced to do much wanton mischief. Still greater is
our modern surprise at the apparently simple means by which terror has been excited to so general an extent, that even
the wisest and most prudent have not escaped its contagious influence.

On the first point I am afraid there can be no better reason assigned than the conscious pride of superiority, which
induces the human being in all cases to enjoy and practise every means of employing an influence over his
fellow-mortals; to which we may safely add that general love of tormenting, as common to our race as to that noble
mimick of humanity, the monkey. To this is owing the delight with which every school-boy anticipates the effects of
throwing a stone into a glass shop; and to this we must also ascribe the otherwise unaccountable pleasure which
individuals have taken in practising the tricksy pranks of a goblin, and filling a household or neighbourhood with
anxiety and dismay, with little gratification to themselves besides the consciousness of dexterity if they remain
undiscovered, and with the risk of loss of character and punishment should the imposture be found out.

In the year 1772, a train of transactions, commencing upon Twelfth Day, threw the utmost consternation into the
village of Stockwell, near London, and impressed upon some of its inhabitants the inevitable belief that they were
produced by invisible agents. The plates, dishes, china, and glass-ware and small movables of every kind, contained in
the house of Mrs. Golding, an elderly lady, seemed suddenly to become animated, shifted their places, flew through the
room, and were broken to pieces. The particulars of this commotion were as curious as the loss and damage occasioned in
this extraordinary manner were alarming and intolerable. Amidst this combustion, a young woman, Mrs. Golding’s maid,
named Anne Robinson, was walking backwards and forwards, nor could she be prevailed on to sit down for a moment
excepting while the family were at prayers, during which time no disturbance happened. This Anne Robinson had been but
a few days in the old lady’s service, and it was remarkable that she endured with great composure the extraordinary
display which others beheld with terror, and coolly advised her mistress not to be alarmed or uneasy, as these things
could not be helped. This excited an idea that she had some reason for being so composed, not inconsistent with a
degree of connexion with what was going forward. The afflicted Mrs. Golding, as she might be well termed, considering
such a commotion and demolition among her goods and chattels, invited neighbours to stay in her house, but they soon
became unable to bear the sight of these supernatural proceedings, which went so far that not above two cups and
saucers remained out of a valuable set of china. She next abandoned her dwelling, and took refuge with a neighbour,
but, finding his movables were seized with the same sort of St. Vitus’s dance, her landlord reluctantly refused to
shelter any longer a woman who seemed to be persecuted by so strange a subject of vexation. Mrs. Golding’s suspicions
against Anne Robinson now gaining ground, she dismissed her maid, and the hubbub among her movables ceased at once and
for ever.

This circumstance of itself indicates that Anne Robinson was the cause of these extraordinary disturbances, as has
been since more completely ascertained by a Mr. Brayfield, who persuaded Anne, long after the events had happened, to
make him her confidant. There was a love story connected with the case, in which the only magic was the dexterity of
Anne Robinson and the simplicity of the spectators. She had fixed long horse hairs to some of the crockery, and placed
wires under others, by which she could throw them down without touching them. Other things she dexterously threw about,
which the spectators, who did not watch her motions, imputed to invisible agency. At times, when the family were
absent, she loosened the hold of the strings by which the hams, bacon, and similar articles were suspended, so that
they fell on the slightest motion. She employed some simple chemical secrets, and, delighted with the success of her
pranks, pushed them farther than she at first intended. Such was the solution of the whole mystery, which, known by the
name of the Stockwell ghost, terrified many well-meaning persons, and had been nearly as famous as that of Cock Lane,
which may be hinted at as another imposture of the same kind. So many and wonderful are the appearances described, that
when I first met with the original publication I was strongly impressed with the belief that the narrative was like
some of Swift’s advertisements, a jocular experiment upon the credulity of the public. But it was certainly published
bona fide, and Mr. Hone, on the authority of Mr. Brayfield, has since fully explained the wonder.85

Many such impositions have been detected, and many others have been successfully concealed; but to know what has
been discovered in many instances gives us the assurance of the ruling cause in all. I remember a scene of the kind
attempted to be got up near Edinburgh, but detected at once by a sheriff’s officer, a sort of persons whose habits of
incredulity and suspicious observation render them very dangerous spectators on such occasions. The late excellent Mr.
Walker, minister at Dunottar, in the Mearns, gave me a curious account of an imposture of this kind, practised by a
young country girl, who was surprisingly quick at throwing stones, turf, and other missiles, with such dexterity that
it was for a long time impossible to ascertain her agency in the disturbances of which she was the sole cause.

The belief of the spectators that such scenes of disturbance arise from invisible beings will appear less surprising
if we consider the common feats of jugglers, or professors of legerdemain, and recollect that it is only the frequent
exhibition of such powers which reconciles us to them as matters of course, although they are wonders at which in our
fathers’ time men would have cried out either sorcery or miracles. The spectator also, who has been himself duped,
makes no very respectable appearance when convicted of his error; and thence, if too candid to add to the evidence of
supernatural agency, is yet unwilling to stand convicted by cross-examination, of having been imposed on, and
unconsciously becomes disposed rather to colour more highly than the truth, than acquiesce in an explanation resting on
his having been too hasty a believer. Very often, too, the detection depends upon the combination of certain
circumstances, which, apprehended, necessarily explain the whole story.

For example, I once heard a sensible and intelligent friend in company express himself convinced of the truth of a
wonderful story, told him by an intelligent and bold man, about an apparition. The scene lay in an ancient castle on
the coast of Morven or the Isle of Mull, where the ghost-seer chanced to be resident. He was given to understand by the
family, when betaking himself to rest, that the chamber in which he slept was occasionally disquieted by supernatural
appearances. Being at that time no believer in such stories, he attended little to this hint, until the witching hour
of night, when he was awakened from a dead sleep by the pressure of a human hand on his body. He looked up at the
figure of a tall Highlander, in the antique and picturesque dress of his country, only that his brows were bound with a
bloody bandage. Struck with sudden and extreme fear, he was willing to have sprung from bed, but the spectre stood
before him in the bright moonlight, its one arm extended so as to master him if he attempted to rise; the other hand
held up in a warning and grave posture, as menacing the Lowlander if he should attempt to quit his recumbent position.
Thus he lay in mortal agony for more than an hour, after which it pleased the spectre of ancient days to leave him to
more sound repose. So singular a story had on its side the usual number of votes from the company, till, upon
cross-examination, it was explained that the principal person concerned was an exciseman. After which
eclaircissement the same explanation struck all present, viz., the Highlanders of the mansion had chosen to
detain the exciseman by the apparition of an ancient heroic ghost, in order to disguise from his vigilance the removal
of certain modern enough spirits, which his duty might have called upon him to seize. Here a single circumstance
explained the whole ghost story.

At other times it happens that the meanness and trifling nature of a cause not very obvious to observation has
occasioned it to be entirely overlooked, even on account of that very meanness, since no one is willing to acknowledge
that he has been alarmed by a cause of little consequence, and which he would be ashamed of mentioning. An incident of
this sort happened to a gentleman of birth and distinction, who is well known in the political world, and was detected
by the precision of his observation. Shortly after he succeeded to his estate and title, there was a rumour among his
servants concerning a strange noise heard in the family mansion at night, the cause of which they had found it
impossible to trace. The gentleman resolved to watch himself, with a domestic who had grown old in the family, and who
had begun to murmur strange things concerning the knocking having followed so close upon the death of his old master.
They watched until the noise was heard, which they listened to with that strange uncertainty attending midnight sounds
which prevents the hearers from immediately tracing them to the spot where they arise, while the silence of the night
generally occasions the imputing to them more than the due importance which they would receive if mingled with the
usual noises of daylight. At length the gentleman and his servant traced the sounds which they had repeatedly heard to
a small store-room used as a place for keeping provisions of various kinds for the family, of which the old butler had
the key. They entered this place, and remained there for some time without hearing the noises which they had traced
thither; at length the sound was heard, but much lower than it had formerly seemed to be, while acted upon at a
distance by the imagination of the hearers. The cause was immediately discovered. A rat caught in an old-fashioned trap
had occasioned this tumult by its efforts to escape, in which it was able to raise the trap-door of its prison to a
certain height, but was then obliged to drop it. The noise of the fall, resounding through the house, had occasioned
the disturbance which, but for the cool investigation of the proprietor, might easily have established an accredited
ghost story. The circumstance was told me by the gentleman to whom it happened.

There are other occasions in which the ghost story is rendered credible by some remarkable combination of
circumstances very unlikely to have happened, and which no one could have supposed unless some particular fortune
occasioned a discovery.

An apparition which took place at Plymouth is well known, but it has been differently related; and having some
reason to think the following edition correct, it is an incident so much to my purpose that you must pardon its
insertion.

A club of persons connected with science and literature was formed at the great sea-town I have named. During the
summer months the society met in a cave by the sea-shore; during those of autumn and winter they convened within the
premises of a tavern, but, for the sake of privacy, had their meetings in a summer-house situated in the garden, at a
distance from the main building. Some of the members to whom the position of their own dwellings rendered this
convenient, had a pass-key to the garden-door, by which they could enter the garden and reach the summer-house without
the publicity or trouble of passing through the open tavern. It was the rule of this club that its members presided
alternately. On one occasion, in the winter, the president of the evening chanced to be very ill; indeed, was reported
to be on his death-bed. The club met as usual, and, from a sentiment of respect, left vacant the chair which ought to
have been occupied by him if in his usual health; for the same reason, the conversation turned upon the absent
gentleman’s talents, and the loss expected to the society by his death. While they were upon this melancholy theme, the
door suddenly opened, and the appearance of the president entered the room. He wore a white wrapper, a nightcap round
his brow, the appearance of which was that of death itself. He stalked into the room with unusual gravity, took the
vacant place of ceremony, lifted the empty glass which stood before him, bowed around, and put it to his lips; then
replaced it on the table, and stalked out of the room as silent as he had entered it. The company remained deeply
appalled; at length, after many observations on the strangeness of what they had seen, they resolved to dispatch two of
their number as ambassadors, to see how it fared with the president, who had thus strangely appeared among them. They
went, and returned with the frightful intelligence that the friend after whom they had enquired was that evening
deceased.

The astonished party then resolved that they would remain absolutely silent respecting the wonderful sight which
they had seen. Their habits were too philosophical to permit them to believe that they had actually seen the ghost of
their deceased brother, and at the same time they were too wise men to wish to confirm the superstition of the vulgar
by what might seem indubitable evidence of a ghost. The affair was therefore kept a strict secret, although, as usual,
some dubious rumours of the tale found their way to the public. Several years afterwards, an old woman who had long
filled the place of a sick-nurse, was taken very ill, and on her death-bed was attended by a medical member of the
philosophical club. To him, with many expressions of regret, she acknowledged that she had long before attended Mr. ——
naming the president whose appearance had surprised the club so strangely, and that she felt distress of conscience on
account of the manner in which he died. She said that as his malady was attended by light-headedness, she had been
directed to keep a close watch upon him during his illness. Unhappily she slept, and during her sleep the patient had
awaked and left the apartment. When, on her own awaking, she found the bed empty and the patient gone, she forthwith
hurried out of the house to seek him, and met him in the act of returning. She got him, she said, replaced in bed, but
it was only to die there. She added, to convince her hearer of the truth of what she said, that immediately after the
poor gentleman expired, a deputation of two members from the club came to enquire after their president’s health, and
received for answer that he was already dead. This confession explained the whole matter. The delirious patient had
very naturally taken the road to the club, from some recollections of his duty of the night. In approaching and
retiring from the apartment he had used one of the pass-keys already mentioned, which made his way shorter. On the
other hand, the gentlemen sent to enquire after his health had reached his lodging by a more circuitous road; and thus
there had been time for him to return to what proved his death-bed, long before they reached his chamber. The
philosophical witnesses of this strange scene were now as anxious to spread the story as they had formerly been to
conceal it, since it showed in what a remarkable manner men’s eyes might turn traitors to them, and impress them with
ideas far different from the truth.

Another occurrence of the same kind, although scarcely so striking in its circumstances, was yet one which, had it
remained unexplained, might have passed as an indubitable instance of a supernatural apparition.

A Teviotdale farmer was riding from a fair, at which he had indulged himself with John Barleycorn, but not to that
extent of defying goblins which it inspired into the gallant Tam o’Shanter. He was pondering with some anxiety upon the
dangers of travelling alone on a solitary road which passed the corner of a churchyard, now near at hand, when he saw
before him in the moonlight a pale female form standing upon the very wall which surrounded the cemetery. The road was
very narrow, with no opportunity of giving the apparent phantom what seamen call a wide berth. It was, however, the
only path which led to the rider’s home, who therefore resolved, at all risks, to pass the apparition. He accordingly
approached, as slowly as possible, the spot where the spectre stood, while the figure remained, now perfectly still and
silent, now brandishing its arms and gibbering to the moon. When the farmer came close to the spot he dashed in the
spurs and set the horse off upon a gallop; but the spectre did not miss its opportunity. As he passed the corner where
she was perched, she contrived to drop behind the horseman and seize him round the waist, a manoeuvre which greatly
increased the speed of the horse and the terror of the rider; for the hand of her who sat behind him, when pressed upon
his, felt as cold as that of a corpse. At his own house at length he arrived, and bid the servants who came to attend
him, “Tak aff the ghaist!” They took off accordingly a female in white, and the poor farmer himself was conveyed to
bed, where he lay struggling for weeks with a strong nervous fever. The female was found to be a maniac, who had been
left a widow very suddenly by an affectionate husband, and the nature and cause of her malady induced her, when she
could make her escape, to wander to the churchyard, where she sometimes wildly wept over his grave, and sometimes,
standing on the corner of the churchyard wall, looked out, and mistook every stranger on horseback for the husband she
had lost. If this woman, which was very possible, had dropt from the horse unobserved by him whom she had made her
involuntary companion, it would have been very hard to have convinced the honest farmer that he had not actually
performed part of his journey with a ghost behind him.

There is also a large class of stories of this sort, where various secrets of chemistry, of acoustics,
ventriloquism, or other arts, have been either employed to dupe the spectators, or have tended to do so through mere
accident and coincidence. Of these it is scarce necessary to quote instances; but the following may be told as a tale
recounted by a foreign nobleman known to me nearly thirty years ago, whose life, lost in the service of his sovereign,
proved too short for his friends and his native land.

At a certain old castle on the confines of Hungary, the lord to whom it belonged had determined upon giving an
entertainment worthy of his own rank and of the magnificence of the antique mansion which he inhabited. The guests of
course were numerous, and among them was a veteran officer of hussars, remarkable for his bravery. When the
arrangements for the night were made this officer was informed that there would be difficulty in accommodating the
company in the castle, large as was, unless some one would take the risk of sleeping in a room supposed to be haunted,
and that, as he was known to be above such prejudices, the apartment was in the first place proposed for his
occupation, as the person least likely to suffer a bad night’s rest from such a cause. The major thankfully accepted
the preference, and having shared the festivity of the evening, retired after midnight, having denounced vengeance
against any one who should presume by any trick to disturb his repose; a threat which his habits would, it was
supposed, render him sufficiently ready to execute. Somewhat contrary to the custom in these cases, the major went to
bed, having left his candle burning and laid his trusty pistols, carefully loaded, on the table by his bedside.

He had not slept an hour when he was awakened by a solemn strain of music. He looked out. Three ladies,
fantastically dressed in green, were seen in the lower end of the apartment, who sung a solemn requiem. The major
listened for some time with delight; at length he tired. “Ladies,” he said, “this is very well, but somewhat monotonous
— will you be so kind as to change the tune?” The ladies continued singing; he expostulated, but the music was not
interrupted. The major began to grow angry: “Ladies,” he said, “I must consider this as a trick for the purpose of
terrifying me, and as I regard it as an impertinence, I shall take a rough mode of stopping it.” With that he began to
handle his pistols. The ladies sung on. He then get seriously angry: “I will but wait five minutes,” he said, “and then
fire without hesitation.” The song was uninterrupted — the five minutes were expired. “I still give you law, ladies,”
he said, “while I count twenty.” This produced as little effect as his former threats. He counted one, two, three
accordingly; but on approaching the end of the number, and repeating more than once his determination to fire, the last
numbers, seventeen — eighteen — nineteen, were pronounced with considerable pauses between, and an assurance that the
pistols were cocked. The ladies sung on. As he pronounced the word twenty he fired both pistols against the musical
damsels — but the ladies sung on! The major was overcome by the unexpected inefficacy of his violence, and had an
illness which lasted more than three weeks. The trick put upon him may be shortly described by the fact that the female
choristers were placed in an adjoining room, and that he only fired at their reflection thrown forward into that in
which he slept by the effect of a concave mirror.

Other stories of the same kind are numerous and well known. The apparition of the Brocken mountain, after having
occasioned great admiration and some fear, is now ascertained by philosophers to be a gigantic reflection, which makes
the traveller’s shadow, represented upon the misty clouds, appear a colossal figure of almost immeasurable size. By a
similar deception men have been induced, in Westmoreland and other mountainous countries, to imagine they saw troops of
horse and armies marching and countermarching, which were in fact only the reflection of horses pasturing upon an
opposite height, or of the forms of peaceful travellers.

A very curious case of this kind was communicated to me by the son of the lady principally concerned, and tends to
show out of what mean materials a venerable apparition may be sometimes formed. In youth this lady resided with her
father, a man of sense and resolution. Their house was situated in the principal street of a town of some size. The
back part of the house ran at right angles to an Anabaptist chapel, divided from it by a small cabbage-garden. The
young lady used sometimes to indulge the romantic love of solitude by sitting in her own apartment in the evening till
twilight, and even darkness, was approaching. One evening, while she was thus placed, she was surprised to see a gleamy
figure, as of some aerial being, hovering, as it were, against the arched window in the end of the Anabaptist chapel.
Its head was surrounded by that halo which painters give to the Catholic saints; and while the young lady’s attention
was fixed on an object so extraordinary, the figure bent gracefully towards her more than once, as if intimating a
sense of her presence, and then disappeared. The seer of this striking vision descended to her family, so much
discomposed as to call her father’s attention. He obtained an account of the cause of her disturbance, and expressed
his intention to watch in the apartment next night. He sat accordingly in his daughter’s chamber, where she also
attended him. Twilight came, and nothing appeared; but as the gray light faded into darkness, the same female figure
was seen hovering on the window; the same shadowy form, the same pale light-around the head, the same inclinations, as
the evening before. “What do you think of this?” said the daughter to the astonished father. “Anything, my dear,” said
the father, “rather than allow that we look upon what is supernatural.” A strict research established a natural cause
for the appearance on the window. It was the custom of an old woman, to whom the garden beneath was rented, to go out
at night to gather cabbages. The lantern she carried in her hand threw up the refracted reflection of her form on the
chapel window. As she stooped to gather her cabbages the reflection appeared to bend forward; and that was the whole
matter.

Another species of deception, affecting the credit of such supernatural communications, arises from the dexterity
and skill of the authors who have made it their business to present such stories in the shape most likely to attract
belief. Defoe — whose power in rendering credible that which was in itself very much the reverse was so peculiarly
distinguished — has not failed to show his superiority in this species of composition. A bookseller of his acquaintance
had, in the trade phrase, rather overprinted an edition of “Drelincourt on Death,” and complained to Defoe of the loss
which was likely to ensue. The experienced bookmaker, with the purpose of recommending the edition, advised his friend
to prefix the celebrated narrative of Mrs. Veal’s ghost, which he wrote for the occasion, with such an air of truth,
that although in fact it does not afford a single tittle of evidence properly so called, it nevertheless was swallowed
so eagerly by the people that Drelincourt’s work on death, which the supposed spirit recommended to the perusal of her
friend Mrs. Bargrave, instead of sleeping on the editor’s shelf, moved off by thousands at once; the story, incredible
in itself, and unsupported as it was by evidence or enquiry, was received as true, merely from the cunning of the
narrator, and the addition of a number of adventitious circumstances, which no man alive could have conceived as having
occurred to the mind of a person composing a fiction.

It did not require the talents of Defoe, though in that species of composition he must stand unrivalled, to fix the
public attention on a ghost story. John Dunton, a man of scribbling celebrity at the time, succeeded to a great degree
in imposing upon the public a tale which he calls the Apparition Evidence. The beginning of it, at least (for it is of
great length), has something in it a little new. At Mynehead, in Somersetshire, lived an ancient gentlewoman named Mrs.
Leckie, whose only son and daughter resided in family with her. The son traded to Ireland, and was supposed to be worth
eight or ten thousand pounds. They had a child about five or six years old. This family was generally respected in
Mynehead; and especially Mrs. Leckie, the old lady, was so pleasant in society, that her friends used to say to her,
and to each other, that it was a thousand pities such an excellent, good-humoured gentlewoman must, from her age, be
soon lost to her friends. To which Mrs. Leckie often made the somewhat startling reply: “Forasmuch as you now seem to
like me, I am afraid you will but little care to see or speak with me after my death, though I believe you may have
that satisfaction.” Die, however, she did, and after her funeral was repeatedly seen in her personal likeness, at home
and abroad, by night and by noonday.

One story is told of a doctor of physic walking into the fields, who in his return met with this spectre, whom he at
first accosted civilly, and paid her the courtesy of handing her over a stile. Observing, however, that she did not
move her lips in speaking, or her eyes in looking round, he became suspicious of the condition of his companion, and
showed some desire to be rid of her society. Offended at this, the hag at next stile planted herself upon it, and
obstructed his passage. He got through at length with some difficulty, and not without a sound kick, and an admonition
to pay more attention to the next aged gentlewoman whom he met. “But this,” says John Dunton, “was a petty and
inconsiderable prank to what she played in her son’s house and elsewhere. She would at noonday appear upon the quay of
Mynehead, and cry, ‘A boat, a boat, ho! a boat, a boat, ho!’ If any boatmen or seamen were in sight, and did not come,
they were sure to be cast away; and if they did come, ’twas all one, they were cast away. It was equally dangerous to
please and displease her. Her son had several ships sailing between Ireland and England; no sooner did they make land,
and come in sight of England, but this ghost would appear in the same garb and likeness as when she was alive, and,
standing at the mainmast, would blow with a whistle, and though it were never so great a calm, yet immediately there
would arise a most dreadful storm, that would break, wreck, and drown the ship and goods; only the seamen would escape
with their lives — the devil had no permission from God to take them away. Yet at this rate, by her frequent
apparitions and disturbances, she had made a poor merchant of her son, for his fair estate was all buried in the sea,
and he that was once worth thousands was reduced to a very poor and low condition in the world; for whether the ship
were his own or hired, or he had but goods on board it to the value of twenty shillings, this troublesome ghost would
come as before, whistle in a calm at the mainmast at noonday, when they had descried land, and then ship and goods went
all out of hand to wreck; insomuch that he could at last get no ships wherein to stow his goods, nor any mariner to
sail in them; for knowing what an uncomfortable, fatal, and losing voyage they should make of it, they did all decline
his service. In her son’s house she hath her constant haunts by day and night; but whether he did not, or would not own
if he did, see her, he always professed he never saw her. Sometimes when in bed with his wife, she would cry out,
‘Husband, look, there’s your mother!’ And when he would turn to the right side, then was she gone to the left; and when
to the left side of the bed, then was she gone to the right; only one evening their only child, a girl of about five or
six years old, lying in a ruckle-bed under them, cries out, ‘Oh, help me, father! help me, mother! for grandmother will
choke me!’ and before they could get to their child’s assistance she had murdered it; they finding the poor girl dead,
her throat having been pinched by two fingers, which stopped her breath and strangled her. This was the sorest of all
their afflictions; their estate is gone, and now their child is gone also; you may guess at their grief and great
sorrow. One morning after the child’s funeral, her husband being abroad, about eleven in the forenoon, Mrs. Leckie the
younger goes up into her chamber to dress her head, and as she was looking into the glass she spies her mother-in-law,
the old beldam, looking over her shoulder. This cast her into a great horror; but recollecting her affrighted spirits,
and recovering the exercise of her reason, faith, and hope, having cast up a short and silent prayer to God, she turns
about, and bespeaks her: ‘In the name of God, mother, why do you trouble me?’ ‘Peace,’ says the spectrum; ‘I will do
thee no hurt.’ ‘What will you have of me?’ says the daughter,” &c.86
Dunton, the narrator and probably the contriver of the story, proceeds to inform us at length of a commission which the
wife of Mr. Leckie receives from the ghost to deliver to Atherton, Bishop of Waterford, a guilty and unfortunate man,
who afterwards died by the hands of the executioner; but that part of the subject is too disagreeable and tedious to
enter upon.

So deep was the impression made by the story on the inhabitants of Mynehead, that it is said the tradition of Mrs.
Leckie still remains in that port, and that mariners belonging to it often, amid tempestuous weather, conceive they
hear the whistle-call of the implacable hag who was the source of so much mischief to her own family. However, already
too desultory and too long, it would become intolerably tedious were I to insist farther on the peculiar sort of genius
by which stories of this kind may be embodied and prolonged.

I may, however, add, that the charm of the tale depends much upon the age of the person to whom it is addressed; and
that the vivacity of fancy which engages us in youth to pass over much that is absurd, in order to enjoy some single
trait of imagination, dies within us when we obtain the age of manhood, and the sadder and graver regions which lie
beyond it. I am the more conscious of this, because I have been myself at two periods of my life, distant from each
other, engaged in scenes favourable to that degree of superstitious awe which my countrymen expressively call being
eerie.

On the first of these occasions I was only ninteeen or twenty years old, when I happened to pass a night in the
magnificent old baronial castle of Glammis, the hereditary seat of the Earls of Strathmore. The hoary pile contains
much in its appearance, and in the traditions connected with it, impressive to the imagination. It was the scene of the
murder of a Scottish king of great antiquity; not indeed the gracious Duncan, with whom the name naturally associates
itself, but Malcolm the Second. It contains also a curious monument of the peril of feudal times, being a secret
chamber, the entrance of which, by the law or custom of the family, must only be known to three persons at once, viz.,
the Earl of Strathmore, his heir apparent, and any third person whom they may take into their confidence. The extreme
antiquity of the building is vouched by the immense thickness of the walls, and the wild and straggling arrangement of
the accommodation within doors. As the late Earl of Strathmore seldom resided in that ancient mansion, it was, when I
was there, but half-furnished, and that with movables of great antiquity, which, with the pieces of chivalric armour
hanging upon the walls, greatly contributed to the general effect of the whole. After a very hospitable reception from
the late Peter Proctor, Esq., then seneschal of the castle, in Lord Strathmore’s absence, I was conducted to my
apartment in a distant corner of the building. I must own, that as I heard door after door shut, after my conductor had
retired, I began to consider myself too far from the living and somewhat too near the dead. We had passed through what
is called “The King’s Room,” a vaulted apartment, garnished with stags’ antlers and similar trophies of the chase, and
said by tradition to be the spot of Malcolm’s murder, and I had an idea of the vicinity of the castle chapel.

In spite of the truth of history, the whole night-scene in Macbeth’s castle rushed at once upon my mind, and struck
my imagination more forcibly than even when I have seen its terrors represented by the late John Kemble and his
inimitable sister. In a word, I experienced sensations which, though not remarkable either for timidity or
superstition, did not fail to affect me to the point of being disagreeable, while they were mingled at the same time
with a strange and indescribable kind of pleasure, the recollection of which affords me gratification at this
moment.

In the year 1814 accident placed me, then past middle life, in a situation somewhat similar to that which I have
described.

I had been on a pleasure voyage with some friends around the north coast of Scotland, and in that course had arrived
in the salt-water lake under the castle of Dunvegan, whose turrets, situated upon a frowning rock, rise immediately
above the waves of the loch. As most of the party, and I myself in particular, chanced to be well known to the Laird of
Macleod, we were welcomed to the castle with Highland hospitality, and glad to find ourselves in polished society,
after a cruise of some duration. The most modern part of the castle was founded in the days of James VI.; the more
ancient is referred to a period “whose birth tradition notes not.” Until the present Macleod connected by a drawbridge
the site of the castle with the mainland of Skye, the access must have been extremely difficult. Indeed, so much
greater was the regard paid to security than to convenience, that in former times the only access to the mansion arose
through a vaulted cavern in a rock, up which a staircase ascended from the sea-shore, like the buildings we read of in
the romances of Mrs. Radcliffe.

Such a castle, in the extremity of the Highlands, was of course furnished with many a tale of tradition, and many a
superstitious legend, to fill occasional intervals in the music and song, as proper to the halls of Dunvegan as when
Johnson commemorated them. We reviewed the arms and ancient valuables of this distinguished family — saw the dirk and
broadsword of Rorie Mhor, and his horn, which would drench three chiefs of these degenerate days. The solemn
drinking-cup of the Kings of Man must not be forgotten, nor the fairy banner given to Macleod by the Queen of Fairies;
that magic flag which has been victorious in two pitched fields, and will still float in the third, the bloodiest and
the last, when the Elfin Sovereign shall, after the fight is ended, recall her banner, and carry off the
standard-bearer.

Amid such tales of ancient tradition I had from Macleod and his lady the courteous offer of the haunted apartment of
the castle, about which, as a stranger, I might be supposed interested. Accordingly, I took possession of it about the
witching hour. Except perhaps some tapestry hangings, and the extreme thickness of the walls, which argued great
antiquity, nothing could have been more comfortable than the interior of the apartment; but if you looked from the
windows the view was such as to correspond with the highest tone of superstition. An autumnal blast, sometimes driving
mist before it, swept along the troubled billows of the lake, which it occasionally concealed, and by fits disclosed.
The waves rushed in wild disorder on the shore, and covered with foam the steep piles of rock, which, rising from the
sea in forms something resembling the human figure, have obtained the name of Macleod’s Maidens, and in such a night
seemed no bad representatives of the Norwegian goddesses called Choosers of the Slain, or Riders of the Storm. There
was something of the dignity of danger in the scene; for on a platform beneath the windows lay an ancient battery of
cannon, which had sometimes been used against privateers even of late years. The distant scene was a view of that part
of the Quillan mountains which are called, from their form, Macleod’s Dining–Tables. The voice of an angry cascade,
termed the Nurse of Rorie Mhor, because that chief slept best ‘in its vicinity, was heard from time to time mingling
its notes with those of wind and wave. Such was the haunted room at Dunvegan, and as such it well deserved a less
sleepy inhabitant. In the language of Dr. Johnson, who has stamped his memory on this remote place, “I looked around
me, and wondered that I was not more affected; but the mind is not at all times equally ready to be moved.” In a word,
it is necessary to confess that, of all I heard or saw, the most engaging spectacle was the comfortable bed, in which I
hoped to make amends for some rough nights on ship-board, and where I slept accordingly without thinking of ghost or
goblin till I was called by my servant in the morning.

From this I am taught to infer that tales of ghosts and demonology are out of date at forty years and upwards; that
it is only in the morning of life that this feeling of superstition “comes o’er us like a summer cloud,” affecting us
with fear which is solemn and awful rather than painful; and I am tempted to think that, if I were to write on the
subject at all, it should have been during a period of life when I could have treated it with more interesting
vivacity, and might have been at least amusing if I could not be instructive. Even the present fashion of the world
seems to be ill suited for studies of this fantastic nature; and the most ordinary mechanic has learning sufficient to
laugh at the figments which in former times were believed by persons far advanced in the deepest knowledge of the
age.

I cannot, however, in conscience carry my opinion of my countrymen’s good sense so far as to exculpate them entirely
from the charge of credulity. Those who are disposed to look for them may, without much trouble, see such manifest
signs, both of superstition and the disposition to believe in its doctrines, as may render it no useless occupation to
compare the follies of our fathers with our own. The sailors have a proverb that every man in his lifetime must eat a
peck of impurity; and it seems yet more clear that every generation of the human race must swallow a certain measure of
nonsense. There remains hope, however, that the grosser faults of our ancestors are now out of date; and that whatever
follies the present race may be guilty of, the sense of humanity is too universally spread to permit them to think of
tormenting wretches till they confess what is impossible, and then burning them for their pains.

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